Virginal
by xLilly White
Summary: What if Padmé had stayed Queen? How would it have affected her character, and the decisions made in her inevitable relationship with Anakin? Anakin/Padme/Obiwan triangle.
1. Chapter 1

_Authors Notes: Been reading far too much Game of Thrones and Pauline Gedge lately, so the idea of exploring Queen Amidala's two-faced character a little further than what the movies gave us was starting to nag me. I'm staying true to canon, so here are a few facts: Padmé was thirteen during the Phantom Menace. Also, before being elected queen she was "Princess" (mayor) of Theed. After the victory, she was offered the chance of staying queen and therefore creating a new dynasty, resurrecting the 'hereditary monarchy' in which her son would rule after her, etc. The last hereditary monarchy fizzled out a thousand years ago, which was when monarchs started to be elected. In canon she refused, but here, she accepts. Which makes things a lot more complicated for Anakin (and Obi-wan, but you didn't hear that).  
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_Rated M, because there will definately be smut later on. Delicately written though- I try as hard as possible not to sound crude.  
>Thanks for reading! Criticism would be <em>very_ nice. :)_

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><p><strong>•1•<strong>

The crackling was like a terrible laughter, flakes of pitiless amusement coughed from the raw throat of Fate. She could feel the sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades, seeping beneath the corset and following the line of her spine. Head bowed, eyes dried by the heat, she listened to the lament of the tenors, cavernous melody interspersed by the cracking and shuddering of burnt wood steadily falling apart.

She wondered what it felt like, for those who were sensitive to the Force, to lose someone dear; worse, to lose a master. She'd always been intrigued by the sorts of bonds one might develop once initiated in the arts of that particular spirituality. She had such large things to worry about – such large numbers, _endless_ numbers, that she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be entirely latched onto someone, and the raw, visceral pain that ensued when that someone was ripped away from you.

She risked a glance over at Kenobi, trying to see his face beneath the heavy hood, trying to see his expression. These men who had fought for her- she would've loved to know them better, to harbour other feelings than the noble kind that she seemed to harbour for absolutely everything. Caring, but detached. Objective. Rational. _Queenly. _

She breathed in the sweet, acrid scent of burnt wood, bringing up her chin and trying to raise her eyelids a little higher despite the stinging heat. The charred, blackened remains of what had been the Master's face grinned eerily up at the ceiling, sending volutes of smoke whirling all around, enveloping her slender physique, and it was like a whisper – _silly girl, yearning for the vanity of grief, the selfishness of tears. Do not mourn insincerely. _

How did it go again? _There is no emotion…_

The knight was weeping. And she caught herself in her envy as she looked at him, all swathed in his heavy layers yet unable to hide the fiery glints as they shone from beneath his lowered lashes. She yearned to reach out and take his hand… just to experience the gesture. Just to share- or rather, to _steal_ what he was going through.

The flames sent their deadly homage through the Master's hollow ribcage, smoke unfurling elegantly, particles of ash whispering through the fingers of her empty hands... and the dead laughed on.

• • •

No one had ever seen such a gathering of Gungans and humans in the Great Hall of the Naboo palace since a true, dynastic King sat on the throne. You could've bathed in the sheer quantity of wine – enough to fill a small lake, surely – and the noise of clattering cutlery and laughter was deafening.

Queen Amidala was surrounded by her royal advisory Council as well as several high members of court and princes of different Naboo regions (including Gungan equivalents). The Jedi who had been present at the celebration had retired - only the Knight and his padawan had stayed, probably more to witness whatever might happen to Naboo's monarchy rather than just because they'd wanted to stay for the food. The Chancellor had also retired, apparently having thought it appropriate to leave since his purpose there was at an end. The Queen didn't seem the least perturbed by this refusal of attendance, but everybody knew she was rather suspicious of him after the way he'd practically manipulated her during the war as though she had no political conscience of her own, so no one had commented on it. Rumor had it that it was actually the Queen herself who had sent him away. Officially though, his presence at the celebration had been sufficient.

They were seated at a high table that overlooked the two long tables where the royal guests were seated from its raised dais. Rich, gold-tinted bunches of lace tumbled from her shoulders and fluttered airily whenever she moved- she was a sight to behold, mask-like face set against a translucent aureole that practically glowed in the last rays of sunlight pouring through the high windows.

Her court officials never let themselves be intimidated by her wardrobe, but tonight it seemed not only the wine but the victory was making them forget themselves – tonight, she was being treated as though she really was an exalted monarch of old.

"Not even the great unification of the Naboo peoples saw such unanimous and festive acclamations," one tall, balding man was saying, waving his goblet about, "It is time, I say! The people are all shouting for the same thing."

"The people are an impulsive mass." Sio Bibble, Head of the advisory council, seemed to be keeping a cool head as usual, though his icy eyes gleamed with excitement. "They've been shouting for the rebirth of many ancestral traditions, not all of which would sit well with the Republican sense of _civilized cultures_."

There was a general laugh at that, quickly interrupted by hot tempers.

"Your Majesty, no Republican clause can reproach us for trying to keep our _culture_ alive." This time it was Lufta Shif, education adviser, a slender reed of a woman in puffy cream robes that was almost standing up as she leaned towards the Queen. "The resurrection of a hereditary monarchy would bring us one step closer to the golden age – the age of the great Kings and Queens of the Jafan dynasty. Who has not ridden under the great stone relics that still stand guard in the forests of Naboo? Who does not have ancestral treasures still fiercely loved and protected?"

"Her Majesty is young!" shouted a handsome regional prince, neck bulging and red with anger, "I doubt she will see the profit in bowing to the reactionary dribble of nostalgics. There is so much to expand upon after this, and you would have us slide back a thousand years?"

"You are young, also," Shif shot back coldly, "and perhaps do not wholly grasp the importance of upholding tradition."

"Naboo needs to rebuild itself, to gain independence, credibility. The Jafan dynasty were ever slaves to the Republic, just as we were up till now. Declaring Her Majesty as royal-blooded is certainly not the priority here!"

"I would advise you pick a better choice of words next time, my prince," Bibble roared over the clamour that ensued, "We have never been so dependent as to be called _slaves_, not even by those who would have us break away from the Republic."

•

A few seats away, Anakin Skywalker was staring at Amidala without paying the slightest bit of attention to the politicians' bickering. His new master had told him what he thought of politicians, and seeing them all so taken by their own ideals that they didn't even wait for their Queen to answer them, he had to say he agreed. They weren't even touching their food, which made him want to snatch their plates since Obi-wan had forbidden him a third helping ("You must learn _moderation_.") Their food was surely cold by now, but they didn't seem to mind - they drank enough wine to compensate anyway. Perhaps wine was the food of intellectuals? Oh well, he was happy to stick to the sizzling red meats and thick sauces that abounded everywhere on the white-clad tables – to hell with thinking too much. Amidala caught his eye precisely because she _wasn't_ voicing any thoughts… beside the fact that she was unbearably beautiful in the dying light. To think that it was the same person who'd slouched beside him in the common room of the Naboo cruiser, who'd slid a blanket around his shoulders, who'd spoken with him using simple words, simple affections… who'd looked at him and cracked a smile despite the icy heights of her position… who'd –

"You keep looking at her like that, you'll make her face-paint start dribbling."

He whirled around to see a smug pair of juice-slick lips smiling down at him. (So much for the 'moderation' statement.)

"So what do you think, my very young apprentice?"

Anakin's eyes went round. "What? About what?"

The knight leaned in a little. "About whether or not Padme should stay Queen of Naboo."

Anakin squinted at him suspiciously.

"Is this a test?"

"Not really. I'm just curious."

Anakin refrained from spouting 'I doubt _that_', not wanting to make things more awkward than they already were. The former slave hadn't known his master for long, barely a few days really, but he could see that his master's mind was so cluttered that there seemed to be a restricted amount of room for him in there. Since Obi-wan's knighthood ceremony, both of them had entered a sort of phase where they'd prod at each other as if nothing was awkward, as if they were getting to know each other like any master and apprentice would… all the while trying to ignore the fact that their whole relationship was based on a promise made to a dead man.

"I think she'd make a great queen." He actually couldn't imagine her otherwise. Well, perhaps he _could_ imagine her in more casual situations… but there was still this mystical sort of energy that emanated from her, the kind that you feel when setting eyes upon foreign royalty – such a wealth of exotic tradition and knowledge withheld behind an exquisite physical façade... Everything about her inspired awe. In his opinion, anyway.

"Bear in mind that staying Queen means the start of a dynasty. Suitors, prince regents, keepers of the divine intention."

"Suitors?" Anakin frowned. He'd never heard of all this – child slaves with an education were quite rare on Tatooine after all, if not inexistent. Still, he hated admitting that he had such restricted knowledge of things outside his own duties, even if no one could blame him.

"Men that will want to marry her out of opportunism. You know, to make alliances, to share territory and authority…"

Anakin stared at him, making his master grin a decidedly boyish grin.

"That's not really the most important thing though," he said lightly, his tone clearly suggesting that he knew just how important it was to Anakin.

Anakin would have kicked him if there weren't so many people around. Obi-wan was taking his reverence for some kind of childish crush and he _wouldn't_ have that. He wasn't – wasn't _childish. _He opened his mouth to retort -

"Your Majesty, surely you could talk some sense into this young wine-addled fool," an old man was saying in an oily voice as he leaned over the table, brocade sleeves trailing in his plate. Anakin's head snapped around, completely forgetting what they'd been talking about as he contemplated the red and white mask of the Queen, watching for any sign of it cracking as he'd seen it crack for him.

The Queen smiled, black eyes glimmering in lukewarm amusement.

"What emerges from lips that have embraced the rim of a wine cup are not to be taken so _seriously_, Senator," she said in the same smooth, oily voice that he'd heard every wise old man use around the table. "Tonight you may let loose your tongues; I will not fall upon you in a righteous rage. Just remember that there is always a _morning after… _and that I am still sober."

That got a smattering of laughter, and though Anakin couldn't see what was funny he smiled anyway – only, when the Queen turned to him for the first time that night, she was still smiling that awfully cold smile, and his became rather forced. He trembled under the impulse of running up to her and rubbing all the white from her face.

• • •

Red, pulsing, ominous. The will of mutual destruction so omnipresent that it feels like they're both dead already. The master lies to the side, broken, and all he can do is scream and struggle against the truth. _No. No! NO!_

Bodies disengaging, twirling so fast for the sake of keeping true to combat forms that their feet are practically off the ground – he can feel nothing save the floating tendrils in the Force, framing the space that his master used to occupy - and something else, something so enormous that it impedes on his very vision and turns the world crimson.

Sabres clash with so much force that you'd think they'd slip through each other, being incorporeal laser. He pushes against the opponent's blade so ferociously that he begins to feel the other blade trembling – or is it his? His lips are curled in an ugly grimace of unadulterated hatred and he glares into the eyes of the Sith - surely the intent is enough to make those eyes physically shrivel and turn to black – but then his enemy backs down, escapes, and they're dancing again, except this time there's no form. No choreography. No art whatsoever, unless mindless murder counts as such.

The sabres clash, clash, rebound off of one another until you can't tell the blue from the red, and the robes are spinning spinning – the padawan lets the rage tear his lips apart, vomiting anger in wretched syllables. His master would have disapproved. What's that? His master's _dead._

Red overpowers blue, and he's dangling. _Oh no you don't._ Fingers claw at life out of pure desire for revenge. The emptiness below him doesn't even scare him because it's gotten inside him too, it's what propels him upwards – he tugs at the Force as though groping at strings, almost falling through the gaps that his master has left – but he manages to find the weapon. _Kill. Kill. Kill._

He leaps… he screams.

Green heat swipes through flesh. But there is no satisfaction. Of course not.

The dead are weeping, he can feel it, but he can only suck air into this dried cocoon of a body, shocked into numbness. Eyes wide, chest heaving as his enemy's body splits, the red mouth hanging open in surprise more than pain… he contemplates how vague the notion of 'death' is beyond the obvious corporeal immobility. Because how can we prove that we have attained death if our bodies keep on going without us? He is sure this is death, even if his blood is still running thick through his veins, his sweat still trickling down his forehead, his throat still burning. How else could he define the numbness, the cold dread?...

• • •

Her eyes were shining with excitement.

"Can you even imagine, Sabé? After a thousand years, the ice being broken, the proposition being made…"

The faithful handmaiden was helping her Queen undress after the feast, bustling around with garments and jewellery draped on her forearms. Padme was sitting at her gold-encrusted dressing table, wiping the paint from her face in little trembling swipes.

"I would've thought you'd be more intimidated by the proposition," Sabé said hesitantly, always striving to please her mistress and to show her that she'd been right in choosing her as the favourite, the royal decoy. The most trusted of the maidens had to earn the position, and she was constantly renewing the effort.

"I _am_ intimidated, of course I am- I'd be a fool to consider it as one considers accepting jewellery or some such respectful homage." She was gabbling excitedly, having reverted back to Padmé, back to the thirteen-year-old girl whose fingers barely peeped out of the too-wide sleeves, whose lips trembled when the slick red had been wiped away.

Sabé was older than she was, and the only thing that could get in the way of her reverence for the Queen was the fact that she was more mature as a woman – and therefore was infinitely more down-to-earth when it came to base human relations and what it meant to accede to adulthood on the most primal of levels – something that the sweet virginal queen could not even fathom despite all that political and economical genius.

"Padmé," the faithful handmaiden said, striding around to settle her perfumed palms on the Queen's shoulders. "How many other queens do you know of, who rule by themselves?"

The Queen looked puzzled by the question. For the past few centuries there had been a tendency to elect Queens, and so it was not such an alien notion here on Naboo.

"Not all queens have to be part of a royal couple to rule."

"Padmé, you cannot morph the entire system into a matriarchy," Sabé said with infinite patience, "Restoring a hereditary monarchy reopens the possibility for royal intergalactic alliances, if we truly follow tradition. Which would place a whole new world of duties and trouble on you."

"Trouble," Padmé echoed with a laugh. "You think my queendom has been a piece of cake up till now?"

"That's what I'm trying to say!" Sabé exclaimed, "Imagine having an entire other planet at your charge!" _And ruling alongside a man._ But neither of them could really imagine that.

"But I wouldn't be alone to take care of all that, would I?"

_Oh, you certainly won't be alone. _Sabé sighed. "I was just telling you to consider that as well, seeing as you seem to be thinking more of tradition and history than reality."

"Have I _ever_ been unrealistic?" Padmé said, seemingly fluffing up indignantly. "I mean, what's so difficult to consider about having to marry? I was thinking about what it would mean when it comes to my duties – seeing as royalty would become my life." Sabé looked down at her almost pityingly- at 13, no young girl could truly consider a life-time proposition seriously. "Everything would take on a more religious aspect, wouldn't it? I was wondering how being sacrosanct would change the manner of ruling, the daily interactions, all that. I mean, the Jafan kings and queens were considered demigods - but everyone knows I was just a princess like any other a few months back. How on Naboo is any type of divine status ever going to be recognized?"

"You will probably receive a divine blessing." Sabé shrugged. "The founder of the Jafan dynasty made himself king after ending the Gungan-Naboo war- perhaps you should look up how he went about obtaining divinity."

Padmé craned her neck to gaze up at her handmaiden, sensing a certain nonchalance about the whole thing.

"You sound like you know I'll just end up turning down the proposition," she said slowly. "But you know, I'm not going to make the decision in one night- nor am I making the decision by myself."

She turned around again, eyes locking with those in her reflection. She had come to loathe her physical appearance without face-paint; it make her feel naked, stripped of credibility. Those pale pink lips, the wide innocent-looking eyes, the round, childish cheeks… she turned her eyes to the jewellery strewn carelessly over the tabletop.

"Padmé…"

"You know you can speak freely with me, Sabé," the Queen soothed her friend, not for the first time since they'd started the whole decoy collaboration.

"I think… I think you may be too young to realize what a life-long position such a Queen can truly - "

Sabé had anticipated that glare, that pained, betrayed look; the Queen stood, wrenching away from her handmaiden's fingers before standing there for a spell as if unsure of what to do. It was almost heartbreaking to see it, that hesitation, that childish loss for words – but then she was taking long steady strides toward the wide mirror that stood by her bed.

"I need to talk about this with someone neutral. Someone who doesn't have an influence over the Naboo seat of power at all - but who is still trustworthy, of course. Someone who appreciates what I have done for the Naboo people already, and who recognizes the ruling quality that has apparently won me this honour."

The handmaiden followed her queen, head bowed in apology. It had been an inappropriate thing to say, of course – but _someone_ had to say it. She knew that the queen's greatest insecurity was her lack of experience due to young age, and the terrible thing was that there was no way of remedying that except actually bringing about those experiences, waiting for the time to pass. And of course, there is nothing more infuriating than a remedy that takes years to come into effect. She'd have to suffer the doubt of others for years to come.

Seeing that Padmé had outstretched her arms, the handmaiden stood behind her and began the tricky task of unwinding the elaborate undergarment to replace it with proper night garb. Sabé stayed silent, waiting for the answer to come to her queen regarding who she should talk to – there were scant few to choose from with such criteria. Silently she pulled at the thin ropes, undid the gold tassels, and peeled the folds away one by one until all that was left was the slight body of Naboo's youngest ruler.

The two girls looked at the reflection, Padmé staring steadily, Sabé glancing rather furtively so as not to show disrespect. Their impressions, however, were identical: both saw the bony knees, the budding breasts, the slight dip of the waist… one could only think of the word _nubile_ when presented with such a sight. Sabé knew how Padmé would comfort herself; the young girl would tell herself that it was better to have an adult mind and a childish body than the opposite, and that it was with her mind that she ruled, not her young bosom or her flawless skin. But, Sabé thought sadly, the Queen would surely see just how wrong she was once tradition was restored, and with it, the true status and rights of a Naboo Queen.

• • •

"Master?"

Something was pulling at him… the crimson swirled stubbornly – _no, wait, I'm not finished… _everything turned to grey dregs and finally collapsing to reveal the comforting black of his closed eyelids. He'd meant to stay there, to make things right, to pick himself apart so that he might learn how not to react like that ever again – but it was still such a vibrant memory that he could almost feel the slippery metal against his palms, the braid's lash on his cheeks after so much spinning. How could he work on it, when the subject itself deconstructed the effort?

The Knight waited until his racing heartbeat calmed a little, before cracking his eyes open to find a little boy standing in front of him in the morning light, a hand on his wrist.

"Anakin?"

The boy had a huge grin on his face, despite his eyes being all puffy from sleep. With an inward sigh the knight realized this was another night he'd have to catch up on.

"Pad- I mean, _the queen_ has commanded that we join her for breakfast," said the boy in a silly deep voice.

"…What?"

Obi-wan forced his eyes to open a little wider, looking towards the door where he found an elegantly dressed herald staring straight at him.

"The Queen has a few things she would like to discuss with you in private," the herald said. "Please, come. This is a great honour."

Obi-wan looked at his padawan and hoped his thoughts of, _why ask for both of us?_ weren't too apparent in his gaze.

"Alright. Lead the way."

• • •


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's notes: It's been a long wait, sorry about that. I've been itching to get some work done on my ongoing fics, especially this one, so now that I have little time on my hands I've pounced on Word to try and make the most of it. Can't guarantee the next update though, since these chapters do take a while to write (I'm never happy with the structure nor the content so this one has been rewritten a couple of times). Thanks a lot to those who read, and don't forget to leave a review! Love those. Do feel free to point out what's wrong with the chapter because there are few things I feel I could still improve ... argh, will never be free of editting!  
><em>_Hugs to Chris, a little birdie and a__non for your reviews!  
><span>25.5 Edit:<span> Fixed the whole "he looked up, she looked down, she looked up, he looked down" messiness in the last part. Awkward exchanges somehow insist on coming out awkwardly written. _

_Music: Telling Ghosts (Puscifer), White Swan (Lolly Jane Blue), Cancao do Mar (Dulce Pontes) among other things._

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><p>•<strong>2<strong>•

"And the Queen wasn't more specific than that?"

"Well I guess that's how people will be referring to you from now on, master."

"What, individual plus obnoxious appendix?"

"Come on, master. It's not like I've ever been a thorn in your side."

"Yes, in the mightily telling _2 weeks_ we've been together." Obi-wan rolled his eyes, though his expression seemed to be forgiving. He looked down at his apprentice, affording him one of those empty grins. "You are right, though. For now."

The sumptuously dressed herald glanced down at them, his expression utterly blank. It seemed it was a fashion for royal servants to have more life in their wardrobes than in their faces – and not only the servants, judging by Padmé's attitude the night before. Anakin had to jog a little to keep up as they strode down the high corridor, leather boots squeaking softly on the polished marble floor. From his short height he had to strain his neck to look up at his master's face; he'd never had the occasion of seeing a true outbreak of undiluted expression there. Everything seemed to be dampened with a sort of stress, a darkness that made that otherwise boyish face somehow gaunt and tired; the blue eyes were like troubled water, unsettled, colourless. Even before Qui-gon's… he had never seen this man behaving naturally, unrestrained by whatever it was that haunted him. Or maybe it was just that he'd never seen such a serious and cynical human being, and couldn't believe it was the man's normal personality. He did prefer to believe it was a changeable condition, though.

They came to a great circular hall with tall stained-glass windows on either side, the sunlight throwing jagged fragments of colour across the floor. There were gigantic doors in front of them, bronze tendrils hugging the borders and giving the effect of shining, metallic lace- the doors themselves were intricately carved with inlays of opaline gems and nacre. It gave the impression of a humungous, metallic tapestry, utterly immovable; but if you looked carefully you could notice the lines describing the smaller double doors that permitted entrance.

Anakin's jaw practically dislocated. Just one of those luscious milky gems could win him Watto's entire business, slaves, and family while he was at it. He hadn't had the occasion to bring up the subject yet, but one day... The only thing he could've accused Qui-gon of doing wrong was not making as much effort for his mother's freedom; there _had_ to be something they could've done. He knew he shouldn't be glancing over his shoulder like that but how could he help himself? It had hardly even been a couple of weeks.

_My place is here,_ his mother had told him. _Don't look back._ But somehow he could sense that neither him nor his mother really wanted to heed that advice.

Obi-wan was looking down at him, at the boy whose expression was rapidly moving from baffled to coolly calculating as he stared at the sprawling riches above them. He could feel the boy's longing through the Force, feel the incredible soreness; there was a sense of loss, too, but it was coupled with determination to set things right. Something that he could hardly hope to do – Death was too formidable an obstacle. Neither of them could afford to dwell on those things if they wanted to spiritually evolve, as the Code said – but to him they seemed almost stranded here, under no one's watchful eye. Perhaps it was best to let certain things lose, that they might not poison you by staying inside you like a rotting tumor.

Still, this was not the time. He awkwardly touched a hand to his padawan's shoulder, who jolted back to attention, reordering his facial features into one of those glaringly innocent, 'I wasn't thinking about anything forbidden' faces – the herald knocked on the double doors, and they were admitted into the Queen's luxurious nest.

White lace adorning every window; polished mahogany everywhere they looked, making the atmosphere warm and almost homely; gold encroaching upon every surface, running down table legs, coiling and writhing along the sprawling royal bed, dripping from the very ceiling in the form of chandeliers, where foggy crystals hung as big as Kaadu eggs.

Neither of the two humble, unadorned Jedi would have believed that what the Queen was wearing was a simple undergarment. The robe hugged her lithe form intimately, lush cream with startling crimson depictions of flowers all around her torso. Her hair was pulled back and elaborately twisted, stuck through with silver hairpins that sent tumbling a thousand precious red stones. The only thing that struck them as odd was that her lips were wearing the customary blood red line, enhancing her face and giving her authority – but without the white, it made her look very... well, more _womanly_ than distant and otherworldly. It gave the impression that she was halfway between their brave-yet-scrawny young friend and their sacred, foreign Queen.

Anakin would've forgotten to bow, had Obi-wan not giving him an _absolutely_ inconspicuous foot-stomping.

"The Jedi," the herald announced them rather laconically, before retiring and pulling the doors shut behind him.

"Your Majesty."

Anakin glanced up at Obi-wan, furtively echoing the words. This – wasn't this just Padmé? It felt stupid to be bending to protocol when they'd been through thick and thin together. He kept his eyes on Padmé's face as he bowed at the waist, grinning as though they were conspirators in this great joke that was royalty. But Padmé's face, to his surprise, hardly even twitched in response.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

It was strange, how she'd deliberately change her accent to appear more severe. She had the same accent as Obi-wan in those moments, and it made her entire persona seem to shrink into the same drab seriousness. Anakin cracked his knuckles absently behind his back, thinking about how he'd love to shake her out of it.

Two orange-clad, hooded handmaidens came to usher them to the divans that surrounded the low breakfast table, where the Queen was reclining, leaning on one elbow. Anakin noticed that his master was looking at her with a strange intensity, and he was swallowed in an intolerable curiosity regarding what the man thought of her. Perhaps it was best that words could not yet pass between them through their Force bond – though Anakin did not know what an 'odalisque' was, the simple strain and hastily squashed delight would betray whatever Obi-wan might try to think to blot out first impressions.

All speculation was swept away once they were seated, however; Obi-wan let his eyes glaze over into that haughty official look and gave her a cool, impersonal smile, which she returned. Anakin was at a loss;_ why_ were there sudden formalities, damn it? He wondered if Padmé would mind him speaking up and saying how good it was to see her; the atmosphere was so strange. There was this unnatural weight of being careful about what you did, what you said; Anakin found himself physically relaxing his shoulders. He'd never been careful, not with clients, not even with people who had owned him and were at liberty to punish him had he put a toe out of line. _Oh, to hell with it. _She was just a temporary Queen; it wasn't like she would have him whipped for trying to be friendly. And he could bet that he'd had more whippings than these two put together.

He found himself giving Padmé a wide grin as if it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world. "It's great to see you again."

Her eyes passed over him briefly, and though he swore they softened a little, he couldn't help wincing. _So much for friendly._

"I can't even begin to express how it warms my heart to see you both again," she began, not sounding like herself, neither in the words nor in the accent. "I wanted to discuss some urgent matters of state with you, before I take them up with my personal council – but before that, it would please me to hear your own plans, and how you find my city. There hasn't been much time for talk, what with all the recent happenings." She leaned forward a little, sweeping her slender calves down from the divan so that she could reach for one of the silver carafes. "Please, help yourselves." She looked up at Anakin, smiling at him at last. "I had this brought specially for you – our sweetest Voorpak milk. It takes a bundle of them – they're tiny creatures – to be able to produce a single jar of milk, which is why it's so expensive. To be honest I don't feel right drinking such luxuries. Here."

Her accent was ebbing a little as she poured; she was gabbling. Anakin grinned at her again (he couldn't seem to wipe the smile off, really; it just varied in width). "Because you think _I'd_ feel right drinking it?"

"I think you've earned it more than I have," Padmé said, tone lowering as she looked at Anakin with that conspiratorial air he'd wanted to see earlier.

Obi-wan glanced discreetly at her hands; they were trembling. "I have to disagree," he intervened, "You're the one who ultimately led us to victory, the one who's had the greatest of honours bestowed upon you."

"Not yet," she corrected him smoothly. She seemed to find it easier to slip back into the formal, distant Queen with the recently dubbed Knight. "I'm not yet a true dynastic Queen. And I also disagree, when you say that my honours are greater than those of a sla- " _I'm a human being, _he'd practically shouted." – of an unfortunate boy who is accepted into the greatest spiritual order in the galaxy."

"There are orders of greatness," Obi-wan replied, "There are many Jedi upon whom the same honours are bestowed. There is only one Queen of Naboo."

She stared at him blankly before remembering to smile politely. "Empty flatteries, sir. I've not yet accepted."

There was an awkward silence as they each helped themselves to the strange fruit and sugar-coated pastries that covered the table, broken hastily by Anakin's "hmmm" of delectation as he gulped down the milk. Padmé nodded his way, apparently not noticing that she was wringing her hands.

"So tell me," she said, and there ensued a long discussion about the war and the country in general, the tone awkward and formal at first before melting steadily into something much more convivial. Anakin couldn't see why she'd forced herself to put on the glittering veil of power, the barrier of superiority in the beginning; perhaps she was unsure of herself, of how to behave with them now that the war was over. He didn't really realize it seeing as he held her in such high esteem, but she was only slightly older than he was – and even those who have the greatest of intellects can become socially awkward. With the face of a Queen, it was easier to pretend to be sure of yourself.

At last there came a loophole in the conversation that enabled them to get back on their feet and commence discussing the matter at hand.

"I wanted to consult with members of the Jedi Order," Padmé said, leaning in and looking up at the Knight facing her as she spoke, "primarily, because I wanted to talk about this with people who I know will not be trying to influence me for their own interests. And, of course, because I know I can trust you to be absolutely impersonal as well as accurate in any advice you might give, as you are but an ambassador here now that the fighting is over."

Anakin's gaze flipped over to Obi-wan, who nodded once with an affirmative smile, effortlessly holding the Queen's gaze. It hadn't really been a question, rather a statement that needed confirmation.

"That is indeed a wise decision."

Why did it always sound like he was playacting? Anakin's eyes flipped back to Padmé again, neck twisting comically, mouth open.

"I had thought to keep my role in the Intergalactic Senate as senator once my term was up. But you heard what they were saying at the banquet yesterday. All they're waiting for is for me to tell them I accept, and things will be made public." She shook her head. "I know Jedi are mostly fierce Republicans, so you probably won't agree with the idea of traditional monarchy. And restoring the notion of heritage annihilates all democratic aspect. But I intend to keep my status if I do accept – that is, I intend to rescind all those ridiculous privileges that come with traditional royalty."

"Why?" The word dropped onto her bold monologue like a feather on lurching waves. She looked up at the Knight, having lost her gaze somewhere as she spoke.

"Misery affects the modern man differently than in ancient times, perhaps," she said slowly, "I consider myself too close to my people to even consider putting myself at an even greater advantage than I already am. Ruling, even traditionally, can be done justly – and I will see to it."

"For now," the knight said calmly, looking at her with something akin to mischief – or was it irony? – in his eyes. "Not all privileges are unhelpful. I daresay royalty _needs _the edge that you would find unjust, in order to keep both the power to act, and a semblance of it. Not to mention, you will not rule alone for long."

Padmé's eyes darkened, though her lips stretched into a smile. "And here I thought I would receive some different, more learned advice," she said with a titillating, absolutely false laugh, "Is this all I can get? Even from the wisest, a warning of how I will be utterly powerless once a man comes along and takes up space in the throne room?"

"You will only be powerless if you let yourself," Obi-wan replied.

"And I won't," Padmé shot back stubbornly. "I don't think I even _could_ let myself. It is a rare man that is solid enough to lean upon."

"Perhaps it is not you who will be doing the leaning."

The Queen visibly bristled up this time. "Excuse me, sir, I hadn't the notion that my apparent lack of willpower was an obvious and accepted fact in this conversation."

"I'm not aware of your plans, nor of your life before the war," Obi-wan said smoothly, "But to so readily plunge headfirst into the wild pursuit of ancient tradition while discarding plans that you'd _willingly_ committed yourself to does not appear to me as a show of faithful, unbending will."

"You would call my behaviour _erratic_?" the Queen exclaimed. "I've only ever done what's best for my people – nothing is set in stone! We cannot pursue the same path when so much change has been made. I know I may seem a child to you, with many _wild_ fancies as you so put it. Permit me to say, I am not."

"Permit me in return," Obi-wan said coldly, all friendly expression gone. "To abandon one path because it has become unfriendly, or because you deem it to have become inappropriate, is a mistake. You had your reasons to stick to that path before. Remind yourself of them."

Padmé lowered her chin, looking at the knight from beneath her knotted brow. Anakin couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a breath; he watched them, heart beating faster and faster.

"It is not because you cling so blindly to your own path even after the silence has settled, that I must cling to mine."

Obi-wan stood up, so suddenly Anakin jumped.

"How dare you," he hissed.

"Master- " Anakin's voice was trembling, and far too quiet for either of the two to even acknowledge him.

"Forgive me sir, if you had not been used to people responding when you pleasure yourself by drawing up their faults and exaggerating them tenfold."

"I fail to see why I would indulge in such behaviour. I was not trying to offend you. But I will certainly not sit by and listen to a little girl pleasuring _her_self with fanciful delusions of grandeur."

"A little girl!" Her voice was thin with rage. "Sir, I command you to sit down."

Their eyes bore into one another, him standing, her still seated.

"Sir." Her voice was a threat, brimming with controlled anger, or fright- it was hard to tell.

He obliged.

They sat there for a while, stung. Anakin could hardly believe his eyes or ears; he wondered what had happened. It had been pleasant in the beginning.

"I am sorry," Padmé said stiffly after a few uncomfortable seconds.

"I am sorry also," Obi-wan flung out carelessly. Neither of them meant it.

Padmé cleared her throat. "I will follow your advice. I will lean on no one, and make this decision alone. You are dismissed."

Anakin tried to smile at her as he followed his master's heels. He hoped nothing had been broken irremediably between them – but somehow, even though he hadn't fully understood why they'd each gotten so angry, he had a feeling they'd still wounded each other. What he didn't understand was how proud they each were, and how very fragile his master's state of mind was after all that had happened. It didn't seem possible for a Jedi knight to lose it – neither did it seem right for such a gentle Queen.

One thing was certain – it had not been impersonal, and it had been far from accurate. All that was left was to wait for the Queen to make a statement… and then their time here would be up. They'd have to appear before the Council to report. That was bound to be fun, Anakin thought wryly as he jogged to catch up with his master's long, angry strides.

• • •

Seeing how exceptional the situation was, there were endless formal meetings to be had with heads of state, the Queen's council and of course the different heads of political parties that had sprouted throughout Naboo. If she accepted to keep her position, she knew she wouldn't be able to have a single meal in private for a long time, which was pretty tragic, seeing the mess she'd made of the last one. Padmé was still reeling after that nauseating breakfast – nauseating, because she knew she'd acted the complete fool, speaking back like an offended child just because she couldn't yet control her own sensitivity on the issue of plunging herself body and soul into the role of Queen. It was all so terribly tied up with her own self-respect and pride and, Gods help her, she hadn't yet gone through all the hormonal changes that awaited her when she'd finally become a woman, either. She was _not_ giving in to self-pity and excuses; it was just…

She sighed as Sabé stuck little luminescent sequins along her cheekbones. It was _hard. _Hard to shake off the feeling that this was a dream about to collapse; hard to think of everything; hard to stop feeling like she was forgetting half her responsibilities meanwhile.

"Remind me who the special guest of honour is this time?" she asked her handmaiden a little ironically. Sabé smiled as she readjusted the complicated headdress and its many tumbling decorations.

"You'll be having lunch with the winner of the global elections," Sabé said, "Princess Jamillia of the Southern cities. She's Princess of Edin Vale, and I believe it's part of the Conclave."

Padmé looked up at her handmaiden in surprise. "The Conclave? You mean the last state where the Brotherhood still holds sway?"

"I believe so."

Padmé had thought she would never hear an end of the Brotherhood's criticism of her reign. When she had come into power she had rendered illegal all acts of religious intolerance, forcing all religions throughout Naboo to have equal rights when it came to the rights of the faithful, but also the extent of power that the organizations themselves had. The Brotherhood of Cognizance had been weighing heavily on the educational branch of the government, wishing to restore its former glory as dominant religion of Naboo along with its philosophies and spiritual lifestyle – stamping out all such influences had been one of the first things she'd done as Queen, before her attention had been completely swallowed by the Trade Federation.

She got up and put her arms out so that Sabé could click into place the ornamental corset around her waist, and another around her throat, aureate lace encaging the green fabric of her dress.

"If I allowed myself to swear, I would," Padmé sighed, to which her handmaiden laughed fondly.

"You can, mistress, it's only me."

"Still, this is all too soon – we haven't had the time to see what faith held sway at Jafan's time, under which Gods the kings of old were consecrated. And I'm sure the mere possibility of being shut out from the main seat of power for an entire generation isn't going to appeal to them either." The little Queen tried to fill her lungs with air to see how much the corset restricted her, before dropping her hands to her waist, arms bent so that the green and gold patterns on her trailing sleeves could fan out. She turned to the mirror: eyes crowned with golden glitter and underlined by twinkling red gems stared back at her. "It was probably the Brotherhood in those days, wasn't it?" she mused. "Tyrannical fodder."

"Perhaps you don't have to apply the old consecration to the letter," Sabé suggested gently, "After all, things are very different now."

"We'll see."

• • •

The blast of ceremonial drums quieted the assembly as the Queen made her entrance. It was a slow rhythm, frighteningly regal, and even Obi-wan felt chills creeping up his forearms upon seeing the small figure in her gold adornments surrounded by handmaidens, Council, and guards wearing the traditional crest and floating, translucent cloak of the Royal Guard. They penetrated the assembly room through the great wooden doors, and as the Queen took her seat at the great round table (the usual arrangement of tables was set that way for formal occasions) the drummers and guards spaced out by the wall. Many guests were clapping, some even whistling at her entrance; Obi-wan frowned at such an effusive display of affection and acceptance. And he certainly wasn't the only one.

"My friends," the Queen said before sitting down, opening her arms to them all with a smile, "Thank you."

And it began.

Pleasantries were exchanged to set the mood, before the highly decorated woman who sat directly in front of the Queen on the other side of the circle spoke up. She was flanked by two men wearing purple robes, large silver circles painted on their foreheads.

Everyone watched her curiously as she made her formal greeting as an opening to her speech. Obi-wan couldn't help glancing at the Queen every now and then to see her reaction – and to see whether or not she'd deign to look at him at all. He almost felt like Anakin, harbouring this ridiculous hope that the prestigious character would look at him while she was engaged in far more serious matters – except he wanted to see if she was uneasy, if she would show signs of regret or embarrassment even in public, knowing that the man she'd so heinously insulted was staring right at her, taking in her every word. He shouldn't feel so bitter about something she hadn't really meant; all that should've remained from that morning was the exchange about her decisions as a monarch. But even as he gazed at her, waiting for her to see him, he felt his chest tightening, heavy with reluctance at even the slightest contact between them. They had behaved like children - it wouldn't do to jealously hold onto such a pitiful grudge.  
>He told himself that, over and over, as he tried to orientate his thoughts towards her politics again. He still thought she was behaving rashly, hoping to fulfill a long-lost dream of the people rather than what was right for the future of the planet itself. But the more he feasted his eyes on her impossibly decorated figure, the more the tricks of gold and riches began to play on his mind when it came to that aspect of her. She certainly looked the part. And she had such determination…<p>

"My sister," the Princess was saying with a smile, her bold voice carrying over the mutterings of the guests, "It warms my heart to see a citizen so acclaimed by the people, offered this chance to stir the memory of glory in people's hearts. It is a proposal that many a King and Queen has dreamed of receiving, and one can only prostrate oneself before the woman who is deemed capable of fulfilling such expectations." She took a breath as everyone anticipated her 'but'.

"My sister," the Queen smiled at her, bowing her head in thanks.

Jamillia returned her smile before pursuing, nacred headdress reflecting the deep gold of the Queen's garb. "Having received the highest statistics during the elections before any question of my sister's life-long supremacy had arisen, I could therefore be seen as her successor, should she turn down the proposal. I wish to make clear my intentions, and ask her plan of action, if she does take up the task."

"Hear, hear," several of the guests were saying as she finished, raising their goblets. There were several drumbeats as the servants bearing the first course came in.

Being only a seat away from the purple-robed man at Jamillia's side, Obi-wan was interrupted in his thoughts as the man leaned forward to catch his attention while there was a general relaxation in the conversation. Not recognizing his function, Obi-wan smiled politely.

"And how fares our noble brother in wisdom?" the man asked in an oily drawl.

"Forgive my ignorance," Obi-wan started, "I'm not completely familiar with all the Orders of Naboo."

"Not to worry," the flabby man smiled, "I am a humble representative of the Brotherhood of Cognizance. We were once the greatest Order of philosophy and religion on Naboo; our archives even rival that of the Royal Palace."

And now you seek to return to power, Obi-wan guessed. The power-hungry faithful were to be found decidedly everywhere – and it didn't surprise him that an Order rose up so soon upon the possibility of consecration.

"I see," the Knight replied, looking up as Jamillia started speaking again.

"Queen Amidala is frightfully radical when it comes to religion," the Brother went on with a huff of laughter, "I daresay I'm surprised she accepted help from the Jedi Order at all during the war, and that she accepts your presence at her table."

"Well, she clearly accepts yours," Obi-wan replied, "And our Order has never had any reason to quarrel with the head of Naboo." Not until recently, anyway. But he was only man, it could hardly be of any consequence.

"How we envy you," the Brother said, "An Order so implanted in the Galactic government can only be looked upon with great admiration by other, smaller organizations who dream of such influence."

"Our goal is not power," Obi-wan said, glancing over at the man with a frown. He was starting to understand the character a little too well. "We bring more military assistance than political."

"Of course," the Brother smiled again, "If we were all warriors as well as monks, popularity wouldn't be a problem! But, pacifism can be interpreted in many different ways."

Obi-wan stared at the man; even in polite conversation it seemed the Brother had no talent in keeping his opinions to himself, as if he was giddy with the fact that he was actually being listened to and taken into consideration. The Knight smiled at him politely before turning to the exchange between Queen and Princess.

"…being familiar with the history of the old dynasties, my sister must realize that to accept royalty, she must renew the broken ties between herself and the Brotherhood, and restore the old faith. Of course, if she wants to keep true to the old tradition, she must do this."

The Queen looked like she was trying very hard not to interrupt her 'sister'. Upon Jamillia's silence, she spoke up, getting to her feet slowly in the process.

"If the people would have elected you new ruler, I know I must take into account the fact that many wished to restore a single faith to the Naboo peoples. I knew of your program during the elections, and to be quite honest, I was surprised that the people expressed a desire to see religion become a greater part of government, seeing as I have never known any serious protestation against the acts I passed."

Obi-wan was gazing at her as she spoke; everyone had kept up muttered conversations while Jamillia spoke, but when the Queen opened her mouth everyone seemed to shut up and withdraw into admiration and reverence. Perhaps it was only protocol, but it was still strange to see a little girl commanding such an eclectic assembly; clearly she had many enemies around the table.

Perhaps he should simply stop thinking of her as a little girl.

"In all truth, your Majesty - " the Brother Obi-wan had been speaking to began, daring to stand up –

"To whom do I speak?" the Queen interrupted him smoothly, stamping down her authority straight away as the man smiled.

"I am Pontifex Maxiron Agolerga, your Majesty, supreme head of my Order, the Brotherhood of Cognizance. If I may - "

"I had no knowledge that there was a new Pontifex," the Queen spoke up again, "Though critical of my reign, your predecessor kept himself well in line, and did not disturb either my elections or my reign with requests of power."

"Power is not- " The man had hardly opened his mouth that she went on, effectively crushing him; "I am well aware of what the Brotherhood wants. And the fact that my sister supports your cause does not stop me from approving of her intentions. She is the worthiest successor any Queen could possibly hope for. I simply believe that, if the people want more emphasis on religion, the Brotherhood does not have to be the only solution to that wish."

Mutterings rose again as the Pontifex deliberately failed to repress an expression of amusement, as if he thought the Queen's words completely immature.

"Your Majesty, according to the history of our sacred Order- " he started, upon which the Queen violently lifted a hand.

"You may sit, sir."

Obi-wan tried hard not to smile as he watched the emasculated Pontifex sit back down, visibly grumbling to himself. The girl was getting good at this… not that she had practiced on him, or anything.

"Perhaps your Majesty should listen to what he has to say," Lufta Shif told the Queen discreetly amidst the noise that had risen.

"I will not risk handing power over my government to an Order that would impose its religion on my people," the Queen protested, having to raise her voice over the protestations of the two purple-clad Brothers and a few other guests who rose to their feet, "I know it would not seem so now, but any monarch who accepts to give too much political power to one single religion is a fool."

"Majesty!" the Brothers thundered indignantly – suddenly a man of a different garb rose to his feet, the symbols adorning his strangely cut robe hinting at his position as a religious man.

"As representative of the Order of Shiraya, I believe I can speak for us minor religious communities," he began loudly, overriding the rest. "I say 'minor', but we have numbers and moral growth that the Brotherhood no longer has." Practically everyone was on their feet then, half of them supporting him, half protesting. "We are adaptable to the seasons and monarchs," he went on. "We place importance not on the power we wield, but on the knowledge we keep, and its distribution."

"Pray tell, sir," retorted one Brother, "How may this distribution be done if your organization has no weight?"

"Governmental power should not become a higher goal than the simple quest of spirituality," the man shot back, "We offer knowledge freely to those who understand this. We do not need power to uphold our faith, and that is how it should be if the government and our own faith are to stay the least corrupted."

Upon hearing this, Obi-wan felt an absurd urge to take a part in the debate – as always upon finding himself in such heated discussions he couldn't seem to control his ego, pumped up by adrenaline and idealism as it was. He stood up.

"As representative of the Jedi Order, I will gladly give your statement _weight_, sir," he smiled as almost all the faces turned to him. "Even when political power comes to lean on certain religious Orders, it is our duty to uphold freedom of opinion. While our council is very much requested in the Galactic Senate, we prefer objectivity to religiously biased solutions. We choose not to force our beliefs onto those who lean on us both militarily and politically. Any other course of action when in a position of power such as this would simply spell religious tyranny, and eventually obscurantism."

"_Obscurantism_- you go too far- " several voices shouted, but the Queen raised a hand again, and silence gnawed away at the heated debate until everyone was looking up at her. Obi-wan, the Shirayan priest, and the Princess were still standing.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Queen Amidala smiled at them rather forcedly, and both representatives smiled back at her as she bid them sit down. Her facepaint remained intact, but Obi-wan could still tell that she was shaken, though she did have a certain triumphant glow about her. Her sleeves covered her fingers as she brought her arms out in a gesture of peace. "You all harbour noble ideas that deserve to be taken into consideration. I will not say that my own ideas upon becoming Queen would be inflexible as the reign endured. I wish only to make my intentions clear."

"Then you seriously believe you will take this position on?" Jamillia spoke up.

"I have seriously considered it, yes," Amidala replied, sitting back down and inciting the Princess to do the same. "And the problem of accepting is not only of a religious order, though that aspect holds great importance."

"Then what other aspects are there?" Jamillia asked, all sweetness and curiosity now that her companions had embarrassed her by positively attacking her Queen.

"Well, the problem of being a woman, for one," Amidala smiled at her rather cheekily, to which most of the guests laughed, the tension having been slightly diffused. "I'm not sure you would all agree to a matriarchy. The notion of alliance with another planet is to take into account, as well as the changes in the general governing of Naboo. Of course," she added as she started spearing at her food, "we may take a break and talk about the weather for a while to soothe our egos."

• • •

It had been a very, _very_ long lunch. Obi-wan wanted only one thing- to go sit in the Royal gardens and meditate until nothing existed in his mind but silence and the most primitive human consciousness. But he had been surprised by how logical the Queen had been all throughout the different debates, and at how much he actually agreed with her on most subjects. He knew she was clever, but, well… there remained the problem of having underestimated her, and the problem of this morning. There was no way he'd leave that hanging a second longer.

He tried to catch up with her once the lunch was over (it was practically time for dinner), walking briskly on the edges of her escort with several other men who were shouting to have her attention; she was talking to the Shirayan priest, who had managed to squeeze in beside her. Once they parted with a smile and a gaze that lasted too long for there not to have been some sort of agreement between them, she looked over the heads of her maidens to see who else required a private audience – and nodded once at Obi-wan as he half-jogged to keep up the pace.

"The rest can go," she said to the captain of her guard, who immediately gathered his men to block the way and scatter the other officials. He shouldn't have felt priviledged - but then again he hadn't thought she'd want to see him at all, so this was a hopeful development.

They were walking towards her chambers, him waiting for her to break the ice, maidens coming forwards to open the doors along the way through the wide corridors.

"I have to say, I was surprised at your enthusiasm back there," she said without looking at him. "According to Qui-Gon, politics were never really your thing."

"He said that about me, did he?" Obi-wan smiled, ignoring the sting that always came upon hearing his master's name. "Did he tell you that when you were a handmaiden or when you were a Queen?"

Amidala glanced up at him, and he was relieved to see her playful expression. "If you're implying that I had to squash any amount of intelligence or interest in politics I might possess when playing the handmaiden, you're wrong. I don't pick them for their looks you know."

"Oh, don't you?"

"You should say that a little louder," the Queen smiled, "To be honest, I think they'd be more offended than flattered."

"If beauty can be used to obtain such power as you were wielding in there, I don't think you should think so lowly of it," Obi-wan retorted. The Queen looked up at him again with something between shyness and curiosity in her gaze.

"Was that a compliment, master Jedi?"

"Of course not," Obi-wan railed her, "You should be hitting me for implying that beauty more than logic won you the politicians' approval."

The girl seemed to think on this, before saying, "You're right," and slapping him across the back of the head, completely surprising him – he hadn't thought she'd do it, what with the silly awkwardness of their exchange.

"Ow!"

"Oh please, you could do a million times worse without even raising a finger," the Queen laughed, "But when given the opportunity, I won't spit on the freedom to chastise you great warriors as I see fit."

"Speaking of which," Obi-wan started somewhat slowly, absently rubbing the back of his head and wondering whether he should be the one apologizing, or her. It was a frightful muddle, so he went ahead, not quite sincerely - but it had to be said. "I believe I owe you an apology-"

"No you don't," the Queen interrupted him; they had arrived the doors to her chambers, and her handmaidens were dispersing. Sabé remained to open the door for them, and just as Obi-wan was slowing to a stop, the Queen turned to usher him in with an urgent gaze and a wave of a many-ringed hand.

Startled at such an intimate request, the Knight picked up his feet uncertainly and followed her inside. They strode across the first half of the room where they'd had breakfast; Obi-wan stopped in the archway that lead to the Queen's bedroom as she followed Sabé in.

"No need to be intimidated," Amidala said without turning, having sensed his discomfort, "I hardly have any time to myself in between meetings. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" Obi-wan's mind was whirring as the Queen lifted her arms, standing facing a great gilded mirror on the wall, and her handmaiden started flicking at the pressure buttons that kept her decorative corset together. "Uh… as long as you don't." What was he supposed to say? He smiled to himself at how boyish his reaction was. He couldn't even imagine what Anakin would say if he told him what intimacy the Queen had granted him.

The orange-clad handmaiden whipped back her sleeves in order to reach up to the headdress and carefully heave it up off of the Queen's head after pulling at several concealed buckles and strings. Amidala cracked her neck from side to side with an audible sigh of relief.

"Wipe the paint off," she commanded her handmaiden who complied straight away, fetching a little slip of sweet-smelling cloth and standing before her mistress, wiping one half away, then the other in two deft swipes.

It was almost strange to see Padmé's young face sitting atop a body swathed in so many riches. She had her eyes on her reflection as Sabé peeled away the heavy kimono, revealing a cream-coloured undergarment that was much closer to the girl's body, though the green and gold embroidery took away from the simplicity of its cut. Several green bands were wound tightly around her waist in a criss-crossing pattern, giving a sudden feminine curve to her otherwise boyishly skinny body.

Obi-wan wasn't even wondering how far this would go or what was the purpose of it all; he just looked on in mild wonder as she reached up to take several pins out of her elaborate hairstyle, shaking out the many twists and braids so that the chestnut curls came bouncing messily around her face. She nodded at Sabé, who retreated to stand with her back against the wall next to the mirror, head down, hands joint.

And then it was Padmé who turned to the Knight, eyes sparking with timid sincerity as she stepped towards him. He couldn't repress a slight grin at how curiously she was behaving, until she stopped in front of him within arm's reach.

"I wanted to do this properly," she started, and it seemed to take a great deal of willpower for her to meet his gaze. "Neither as handmaiden nor as Queen, just – me." He didn't think she realized how childish she sounded when she said that. But he didn't interrupt; there was something derangingly innocent about her, and it seemed to be squeezing uncomfortably at his chest. "I – I have trouble remembering who are my actual friends, and who is just using me. I had no right to judge you like that this morning - "

He had stopped smiling as he held her gaze. "I should be the one apologizing," he broke in, but she took another step forward, cutting him short.

"No," she said, looking away and taking a few seconds before continuing. "… I was unable to save several of the immigrants under my care during my time in the Refugee Relief Movement, so I had the arrogance of believing I knew what it was to lose someone dear to me." Her voice seemed almost gravelly with fatigue as she said this. And Obi-wan, well, he really didn't want to be hearing this. Not now – not when he had successfully spent the day with no dark thoughts.

"You don't need to justify yourself," he tried to say with as much authority as he could, but it came out strangely quiet, as if laden with emotion. Frowning at himself, he averted his gaze somewhat uncomfortably just as she looked up at him again.

"I do," she said almost pleadingly, "I do, Obi-wan. I don't want to be that grand woman who pretends to be above everything, who pretends she understands even though she hasn't lived through even a fraction of what you come in bearing on your shoulders. Who knows how deep the bond goes between master and pupil? Further than a girl's compassion – further than a Queen's mercy – further than even a mother's bond, even? How could I even try to define what you went through, having lost that?"

The way she was almost begging him to forgive her when he thought he already had seemed to affect him in a way he hadn't thought possible – the words grappled their way through him till they found the accusation that was still there, the offense, the _hurt_ that she'd incensed this morning that he hadn't quite gotten over. And it was a monstrous thing, though he could hide it well enough when nobody confronted him with it directly. It fed on every reference made to the beloved dead; and the more people spoke of his master, however implicitly or directly, the more the monstrous thing broke through his self-control.  
>He could feel it building up in his throat and he didn't <em>want<em> it to be happening now, in front of her – or in front of anyone else for that matter. _Gods_, when had he started having so little control over his own emotions?

He realized he'd been staring at her steadily as he struggled against the swelling inside of him; he didn't know if she'd carried on speaking or not. Forcing a smile to somehow excuse himself, the Knight turned away slightly, cursing the heat that he could feel prickling over his eyes.  
>"I'm sorry for bringing it up to defend myself, it was a disgusting thing to do," Padmé was saying, "I know you probably don't want to talk about it right now - " Obi-wan afforded her a bitter scoff as he stepped away. " – but I wanted you to know, if you ever do want to talk about it while you're here, you can lean on me all you want. For as long as I knew him…" She drew breath sharply, checking herself. "No, we won't talk about him any further. What's said is said."<p>

Once it started it was impossible to bring himself back to a normal, neutral state of mind if he wasn't alone to deal with it. He almost hated her for one bewildering moment for having brought his master up at all, but he dispelled the feeling as soon as it arose – turning his back on the girl, he placed a hand on the back of a divan and tried to control the surges that rocked up from his chest, struggling to get out. He had to – _had to_ be able to control it. Scatter it into the Force. Even draw strength from it. But _how_ could he do that? He hadn't learned. He hadn't had the time to learn…

Not a sound had been uttered by either of them as one stood stone still and the other bit her lip nervously. He heard a soft rustle of cloth and a tinkle of jewelry as she approached him; a small hand closed timidly around his arm.

"Whenever you want," she said, "I'll tell my guards."

"I don't want to be inappropriate," Obi-wan trusted himself to say – his voice hardly betrayed what he felt, though it was far too quiet.

"Obi-wan." He could hear a smile in her voice. "I'm still just a girl, you know. Do I really intimidate you that much?"

He turned around, then, and his smile was more sincere than it had ever been as he looked down at her.

"You do," he said, "And you should."

• • •


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Notes: So I warned you it would take a bit longer than expected to produce a chapter, but I could've gotten this done much sooner - so once again, sorry! And if you're here, thanks so much for bearing with me. You've been so lovely to me up till now so I really hope this chapter will be somewhat satisfactory. There are so many different angles in this story that this chapter is mostly a political breakdown of who's on who's side... In preparation for the action!fest of the next chapters. :D Do tell me if you stopped halfway through, if there's a flaw in the narration, if the chapter is simply badly structured, etc. I really want to tell this story properly, so if you lose interest don't hesitate to say so, and I'll try to correct whatever mistake I made in the storytelling. :) I spent quite some time thinking about the plot, so as it's become clearer the chapters will come much faster.  
><em>

_Hugs to Yuber, Shrew, Schindler and all you other anonymous readers and reviewers!  
>To Guest - I'm basing my information on Wookiepedia. In 33BY - which is the date of the Naboo crisis in the Phantom Menace - Padmé was 5 months into her first mandate, and she was still thirteen. Then again the Extended Universe is known to continually contradict itself so we're probably both right - the "girl queen" scenario hasn't often been depicted though, which is why I'm using it. :) <em>

_Music: Umbrella Corporation theme. Over and over and over!_

* * *

><p><strong>•3•<strong>

.

The needle plunged into his vein as if it had been butter, depositing the drug in a _hiss_ of decompression. It was over in not even a second, and the effects were already beginning to affect the child's body – his muscles tensed, eyes flickering and lips forming trembling syllables as the molecules washed over him like bugs, insidious and devilishly fast.

He was in the Initiation Chamber of the Vaskaï temple. It was a room built for extrasensory experiences: the ceiling was tainted glass crisscrossed by large golden rings, and it let through dazzling shafts of sunlight – white at midday, dark amber in the evening. The walls were slashed through with different metals that caught the light in all sorts of different intensities and colours, and the floor was cold, scintillating pavestones of different precious stones, unevenly cut so that the reflections were distorted.

The warrior monk that was aiding the child retreated to a corner and watched as the drug made its way through the child's nervous system. Instead of names, the children only had numbers until they passed the first initiation; there was an alarmingly high risk of incompatibility with the drugs, since every child's genetic modifications were unique according to the parents' wishes. Different cuts of the drug had been created to better suit each genetic tendency, but the risk persisted: the risk of cerebral degradation, of insanity. Even if the Vaskaï thought the mind was only an accessory to the body, they did acknowledge the necessity of it. And everything that was necessary to the body's prime functionality couldn't be dispensed with.

7109. That was the child's number. The monk watched, impartial, as the uneven unit trembled under the assault of the alien substance, legs wrapped in the lotus position and fingers curling and uncurling on his knees. There was nothing to say, nothing to do – only watch. The only actor in this crucial moment of reckoning was the boy's body, and nothing else. Once it had accepted the foreign substance, the lesson would begin. But before that…

7109's eyes cracked open, whites gathering the drops of amber sunlight and seemingly flaring up – the monk held the child's gaze as it became imploring, tears escaping and falling in shining streams down his face. His mouth stayed resolutely shut, but before long he let a cry escape his throat as the drug seared through his body, burning him, marking him, opening the paths for the regular intake that awaited him on his religious journey.  
>The monk stayed at the door, trying not to empathize as the boy went through the first phase – the physical phase had been the hardest for him, but it was the mental phase that was the most dangerous. It was apparent when the effects evolved from one phase to the next – the boy's eyes glazed over, and then his perception escalated to the limitless bliss that enlightened some, and extinguished others.<p>

•

"All hereditary weaknesses were erased through genetic tampering," the Teacher assured 7109's parents in the adjoining chamber, where they awaited their child's fate. "If 7109 falters in his initiation, it will not be due to the same weakness as Vassalo."

"He's nothing like his brother, and yet…" ventured the mother, her brow crumpled with worry. "He asks a lot of questions, too."

"Anyone who'd grown up with someone like Vassalo would inevitably become inquisitive."

"But isn't that fault?"

The Teacher leaned forwards to put a reassuring hand on the mother's arm. "Your son has great potential."

The mother seemed to squirm with skepticism. Her red hair glimmered in the evening sun as she evaluated the high-ranking Vaskaï before her – the Teacher must've been over seventy years old, and yet he'd retained a perfect physical condition. Well, not perfect; she'd noticed a slight twitch in his eyes that worsened whenever he concentrated on speech. They all insisted on _perfection_ of the body – but what use was perfection if it tainted the body in such irremediable ways? Not even the Teachers' bodies were immune to the ravages of the drugs, coupled with old age. The gods that they sought to become through their physical form didn't seem to be attainable at all.

•

She'd covered her fiery hair under a dark green velvet hood; the pale sliver of a cheek topped by a glint of white fear became apparent as she turned her face up to the high edifice of the Vaskaï temple. When you were born and educated in a city-state so enslaved in the Vaskaï religion, it was already bad enough to have a different opinion on life and spirituality – attempting to rise against dogmas that were upheld by the entire population was blatantly suicidal.

She couldn't say she'd thought about the whys and wherefores before suffering the hormonal blasts of motherhood, though. After all the scientific advances that the peoples of Naboo had made, it seemed that nobody except the Vaskaï had thought it would a good idea to tamper with the basic hormones that made men and women so dangerously prone to extreme attitudes. Didn't the others see the sheer tyranny of the Vaskaï princes, controlling their population down to their very hormones? And if the current Queen managed her transition, Theed would remain as ever, deaf to the silent pleas of Naboo's less open-minded districts.

Nothing would ever erase that day from her mind, when all the trust she'd ever had in her society had shattered - when the Teachers of her local temple had refused to give her back her son after he'd failed his initiation. It was unheard of, for an anonymous mother to rise against the Teachers, to rise against the very precepts – children who didn't pass the test were sent to isolated asylums deep in the mountains, which was supposed to be a gesture of humanity on the Vaskaï's part. But every mother knew in the deep confines of her heart that they weren't being told the entire truth- it's just that no one ever dared to act on their intuition. Women's revolutions had always been silent after all, and always took very long to become outspoken enough to truly be defined as such. And she felt alone – so alone in her worry, in this dark, devouring depression.

There had to be _something_ she could do... but she was so afraid of rebellion. So deathly afraid...

•

The taxi driver welcomed her in his vehicle, clearing the junk that littered his front passenger seat with one hand. The front seat was exclusive to her – she pressed her cheek against his as a greeting, and winced as she settled in his speeder.

"It's been a while, Dalia."

She didn't answer. Silently, he glanced at the violet blossoming around her eyes, and the silk gloves that covered her wrists.

"The mountains?"

She looked at him, and nodded.

Her firstborn was already waiting for her beyond the gates of Foster Home XXI. The laser gates flickered, humming fretfully before shutting off completely to let her pass; guards came forward to greet her, and to form a line in case the inmates would take the opportunity to run.  
>Once she was free of the formalities, she made her way through the gardens towards the dark figure she'd spied at the gate. She gave in to the urge and broke into a run as her son's features came into view – he was standing by one of the Sentinel trees, black branches dripping with silvery leaves. He had one hand on the trunk, clearly checking himself as he saw her coming.<br>Neither could resist once she was upon him – he threw his arms out and gathered her into a tight embrace. One could've thought they were lovers, seeing with what tenderness he drew the hood from her head and marveled at the red strands that spilled over his fingers. Her own hands were lost in his masses of dark hair as she tipped her forehead against his.

"_Vassalo,"_ she whispered. His fingers trembled against her skin as they traced the outlines of the bruises around her eyes, and she sighed as she held him, feeling irrationally safe in his arms.

They walked through the gardens, guards trailing not far behind them. Dalia's velvet trail ate up the white paving stones, vibrant colours contrasting with the carefully picked out black and white arrangement of the gardens. Her son wore the customary white, close-fitting garments of the asylum, black hair tumbling down to his waist – it was a perversion that he should look like he belonged so well in that garden, in that place.

"Your brother made it through his initiation," Dalia spoke softly, so that the guards wouldn't hear. Vassalo seemed to be delighting in the sight of her face; not once did he look away from her as they walked. "I stayed with him when they lasered the number off his arm. He wasn't too happy about the name we'd wanted to give him – he wanted something that resembled his number. Don't ask," she added when she saw her firstborn's indignant expression. "He settled for Severin. It does feel a little strange, but it was his choice."

Her eyes caught the movement of Vassalo's hand as it moved to his right forearm – his own number was still tattooed there, bold and indelible. He looked down at her before grasping her hand, squeezing till her fingers were almost numb. The insistence of his gaze could only mean one thing.

"I wish there was a more private place where we could talk about this," she whispered, glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder at the guards who were following, several steps away. She pulled out of her son's grasp and took hold of his arm, pressing it against her bosom so that she was nearer to him. Eyes down, she began telling him what had been happening at home – the inmates were kept isolated in all senses of the word from of the outside world.

"The little Queen still hasn't publicly accepted the honours," Dalia said, "I don't think she realizes how encircled she is by threats from all around the globe. Your father - "

Vassalo emitted a low, bestial growl upon hearing mention of his sire. Dalia could only squeeze his arm, hushing him softly.

"Your father has been keeping regular contact with the radicals. Their intention is clear; they're just waiting for the perfect occasion. It's not so much about it not being a man at the head of Naboo – rather, that a hereditary monarchy would erase all notion of actually _deserving_ the throne. She might deserve it now, but who can tell if her sons will?"

Vassalo was watching her with a burning intensity as she spoke.

"Woman," he stated, his voice deep and gruff from disuse.

"I know, her being a woman hardly improves matters. She's not even a woman – she's still just a girl."

"Princes?"

"The Vaskaï heads of state seem to have radicalised overnight. Well. Ever since the question of restoring the old monarchy came about, really. Your father has obtained information from the radicals themselves that some Princes have actually _raised_ the funds given to weapon and drug manufacture."

Vassalo's hand came trembling up to his forehead as his eyes wheeled wildly about.

"_War_," he breathed.

"No," his mother countered instantly. "You know the way of the Vaskaï. Open war isn't their objective at all. Even though some could say our numbers are starting to be great enough… It's never been our style."

Her son looked down at her, brow furrowed, eyes sparking with interest.

"Tell me."

• • •

The Queen was pacing to and fro in her private counselling chamber after a particularly stressful session. The armchairs were all empty save one – and the term "occupied" wouldn't have be accurate, since it was only the Chancellor's blue holograph that took up the space, the man himself being away on Coruscant.

"So you see, your Majesty," Palpatine was saying with his habitual oily drawl, "For all your political genius is worth, you still failed in foreseeing just how the entirety of Naboo's sector would react to the situation." The corners of his mouth were twitching as he spoke, as if he were holding back a gleeful smirk. "It is not too late, however. You can still accept to begin a second term…"

"I will _not_," Amidala broke in with a swipe of her gold-on-red slashed sleeves. "And you forget, Jamilia was supposed to take up office after my first term."

"I think you will find that most elections are corrupt. You would be surprised to see how your popularity would rise, should you but hint at being once again interested in serving a second term."

"_Corrupt_, you say?" Amidala said, turning to the hologram with her chin down and her eyes blazing. "Corruption suits you, doesn't it, Chancellor?"

Palpatine almost looked surprised. "Whatever do you mean, my lady?"

"Oh, I don't know," the girl began wildly, "The Intergalactic Senate was corrupt, the Jedi are corrupt, every single organization that doesn't yet have you as its leader seems to be completely dysfunctional. Am I incorrect?"

He was smiling condescendingly. "Your Majesty - "

"And I'm sure my own policies are quite corrupt too, otherwise why on Naboo are you still trying to give counsel that is absolutely opposite to my wishes?"

"Calm down," said the Chancellor, not looking even the slightest bit ruffled. "You are rambling, my dear. I do not think your ways are corrupt. I think you are easily the planet's most distinguished individual; your naïve sense of honour is your saving grace."

"Spare me the flatteries, sir," Amidala snapped, "Just as we've been discussing with the Council, I'm surrounded by Naboo _and_ Offworld oppositions; representatives of the Trade Federation still upset about there being no resolution on the taxes on trade routes; the dregs of House Jafan claiming their heritage; religious upstarts trying to wheedle me into accepting their influence; and now you tell me that I'm not backed at all by the Senate…"

"It is only natural," the Chancellor drawled, "You did, after all, cause a complete commotion and force everyone to realize just how immoral and sheep-like they are, sitting high on their seats of power, theorizing instead of dirtying their hands."

"But do I really need the Senate's approval?" Amidala sighed, rubbing her eyes – it was getting late, and she was having a hard time concentrating on all the facets of the situation they'd just been discussing. "Naboo was still considered as a politically negligible Mid-rim planet until we changed everything and made you head of the bloody Intergalactic Senate."

"Of course you need the Senate's approval. All you need to supply is your program, my dear," Palpatine said, "If there's one thing you should do instead of hesitating and handing the Planet's governing to your Councillors it would be to come to Coruscant and make your intentions clear before all. Most Senators are against you out of principle rather than logic."

It _had_ been a month since the proposition had been made, and the demand for a different program than the one she'd offered for an eventual second term, or for some kind of sign that she was actually thinking about it was becoming greater and greater. But to leave Naboo…

"I know you've always had Naboo's best interest at heart, Chancellor," she said icily, "But last time I was on Coruscant, I almost made the biggest mistake of my career. I want to stay with my people. We're in an age of holographic communication; the Senate will just have to look in on my announcement."

"That will be seen as an offence, your Majesty," Palpatine countered, "Physical presence is always required for matters of such importance."

"We'll see then," Amidala sighed, before letting herself fall into the plump cushions of her armchair. She touched one of her earrings, clicking the concealed device that would summon Sabé. Then something occurred to her through the intellectual haze that was starting to settle on her mind. She leaned forwards, staring at Palpatine's hologram straight in the eyes.

"Chancellor," she said with a grin, "We haven't taken into account that you were _my_ creature, once. Why don't you give the Senators enough reason to be on my side? You did manage to turn everyone's heads, back when Valorum fell from grace."

Palpatine returned her smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You seem to have grown wiser in the ways of politics," he stated almost sadly. "I thought you didn't want to be seen as a corrupt monarch?"

"I wouldn't _be seen_ as such. I would just _be_. Discreetly."

"Your Highness," Palpatine said with that same tint of melancholy, "I will not encourage you down that path. I'm sorry. I will not."

"The ever faithful Knight of political purity," Amidala said with that same irony glinting in her black eyes. "Some think it's a selfish thing, to debase yourself for your own purpose, but not for someone else."

"You're implying that I debased myself?" Palpatine's voice was tinged with suspicion now – not enough to be worry, but she could see that she'd surprised him with her lucidity. Or perhaps it was fear of her becoming paranoid that she could see in his inquiring expression?

Her hands came up to knead her temples, forgetting that she was disrupting the perfect white of her facepaint.

"I'm sorry, Palpatine. I'm… I'm…"

"You're _tired_, my lady," the Chancellor resumed, before giving her a fond smile. "Get some rest. And please do remember that I've always been on_ your_ side."

Amidala nodded, golden tresses tinkling as they dangled from her headdress. There was a quiet knock on one of the double-doors, and upon invitation Sabé shuffled in with two more handmaidens, all three of them bowing low before their Queen. The hologram evaporated with a hum of electricity, and Amidala stood to acknowledge her ladies, expression drawn and seemingly suffocated under the white powder. And there was the entire evening to get through, still…

"Has the Jedi returned yet?"

"Not yet, my lady." Sabé strode towards her, eyes downcast respectfully.

Amidala sighed, taking her proffered arm. "To the gardens, then. I feel murdered already with all this talk of opposition."

• • •

Dalia watched her firstborn uncurl his arms in the firelight, laser-blades following the curve of his forearms and buzzing angrily with every swipe. The way of the warrior monks was, of course, still offered to those who dwelt in the asylum who still had a sense of belonging. After all, the ultimate humiliation for a son of the Vaskaï, however "insane" he may be, was to be deprived of the ancestral knowledge; to let their bodies get out of shape, and wallow in despair at not being a part of their people's ambitions. It was another "humane" gesture of the Princes, yet of course the mere despair at being exiled from their people sent more men towards suicide than self-improvement. They really did anything to try and console the mothers of the insane - but all the humanity in the world couldn't make up for the utter ruin that they forced on half of their own children.

The dark-haired exile turned on himself, violently slashing at the air with a heated buzz. Blinding laser-light made jagged trails around him as he moved. _Only the strong survive.  
><em>

"You do realize, that if the Queen dies," Dalia dared to whisper, throat in knots as she watched her firstborn dance his deadly dance. "you will be officially recognized as your father's son again. As Severin's brother."

Tears brimmed in her eyes, glinting like countless crystals as she tried to speak, mouth unsticking wetly. No further words came out, and Vassalo turned to her, dishevelled hair spilling over his face. He had been given leave on her request to spend a few weeks at home – they weren't allowed more than a month per year. And there was just something about seeing him in the familiar setting of the living room, fire crackling in the hearth, lights sweeping over his body as if welcoming him back into the bosom of his rightful home… she couldn't do this. Couldn't risk it… couldn't risk never seeing this harmony again… she would've fallen to her knees if he hadn't reached to catch her, hands on her arms keeping her upright.

"Look at me," he uttered haltingly, and upon hearing him speak she tiredly obeyed, always wanting to reward his linguistic efforts. His eyes were dry and hard, and a deep black, but she knew where to look for the warmth he intended. She knew he was taking in her battered appearance, feeling how light and limp she was, and that her sole happiness would suffice to motivate him. But…

"Vassalo," she whispered, closing her eyes and feeling the warmth of her tears run freely down her face – she brought down her face, not wanting him to see. "I'm a weak woman. All I want is to see you here, and content… If there was any other way -"

"Tired," he said vehemently, letting her go in order to turn off his father's blades.

"It's been ten years," Dalia agreed with a sigh, snuggling against his chest when he embraced her. "I'm tired of looking for solutions, too."

• • •

It was the first silence of the day. The silence of sunset. Sounds reverberated in violets and crimsons over a bloodthirsty sky; echoed over the plains of the Palace gardens; shivered along the high Palace windows. Padmé was lying in one of the grassy squares, dress puffing up around her legs, hands thrown out in the grass and eyes closed against the world. Her ladies were sitting around her, and guards were of course standing not far, black figures spaced out on the pink granite pathways; but it was the first calm she'd had in what felt like centuries. And it wasn't destined to last – after not even fifteen minutes of quietude, she heard footsteps, voices, and the eager stride of men that meant business.

"My lady." Sabé was leaning over her; with a grumble of frustration Padmé pushed herself up into a seated position, looking over at the pathway – four of her guards were accompanying Kenobi, immoderately dramatic in his billowing robes.

"One would think you've come to herald the end of the world," Padmé couldn't help calling out, smiling out of sheer exhaustion. The Knight's figure was as loaded as hers with the burden of political awareness; but he still returned her a smile as he approached her.

"So tell me, must we prepare for the apocalypse?" she asked him as he stopped to politely nod at her ladies. "If that's the case, you'll have to lend me a few pieces of your wardrobe. I'm completely jealous of how appropriate you look."

"Oh, you're far more appropriately dressed than I am, your Majesty," Obi-Wan said as he extended a hand. "Red for blood, and gold for corruption. You look the perfect mistress of a doomed planet."

"Corruption! I swear, if I hear that word one more time I'll abolish Naboo's monetary system, and revert back to our glorious primitive past." Padmé retorted, sliding her fingers against his burning, calloused ones, and letting herself be pulled up. "Seashells, Kaadus and pure good intentions."

"Trust me, it's primitive enough out there," was the Knight's response. Padmé sighed, trying to dispel the carefully constructed detachment that had allowed her to have a few minutes' respite from all this madness.

"Report then. How fares my doom?"

They began walking along the paved pathway, Padmé leading him towards the Archives which was her next destination after he'd given his report.

"I've several things to show you," the Knight said, unclipping a datapad from his belt and handing it to her. "Several of the same thing, actually; there are pamphlets from all types of different sources running freely through the networks of the city. Some praise you. Most take up a cry of defamation."

"How original," Padmé said, turning the shiny object over in her hands before handing it back to him. "I'll read them later. Who are the authors?"

"There is Aberon of House Jafan - "

"Obviously." He was the heir of the prestigious House: they had long since settled with the idea of a democratic monarchy, seeing as it was no longer a question of bloodlines. It was totally predictable for them to protest now though.

"His is the most obvious hand. Then there are extraterrestrial voices. Some of the other important Chommell sector planets are broadcasting how the Jafan system was completely defective, etcetera. There are rags from Malastare - "

"Oh? What do our delightful, drug-addled slavers say about me?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. "Lewd metaphors and…" He shook his head. "Nothing worth repeating."

Padmé was grinning morbidly. "Go on."

"The Neimoidians of Enarc are spreading all sorts of things about how you'd further cripple the system's economy if you were Queen."

"Hah!" She was a little less dismissive about this one. "Well, after the Trade Federation fiasco I don't suppose I'll be regaining their alliance any time soon."

"Unless you marry one of them."

"Marry a Neimoidian!" Padmé was laughing now. "I'd prefer a man with a nose, if you don't mind."

"If a nose is all that stands between alliance and this situation of conflict, you should think twice on that." Talking of marriage had changed Obi-Wan's expression from speculative to downright cheeky.

"There are plenty of decent alliances to be made with benosed men," Padmé retorted.

"Your Majesty, I daresay if you're planning to restore heritage, the nose isn't the part you should be worrying about."

"Perhaps I'll marry a woman, and confound you all," Padmé shot back, unable to stop tensing up when there was talk of marriage. "What about the planets of our Naboo system? And our moons?"

Obi-Wan looked slightly shocked at her previous comment. "The moons love you, as far as I can tell."

"See!" she smiled, "Even in symbolism, the female is more favourable to my cause."

"Well you _did_ liberate them from the blockade, too; whatever the opposition might say, you will always have the full support of your moons and system. Unless you do something silly, that is."

"I am the pinnacle of Justice, the savior of my system, the shieldmaiden of Naboo," Padmé smiled, "Shieldmaidens aren't allowed to do silly things."

"But it's still in your power to _do_ those things."

Padmé looked up at him with that familiar amused glint in her eye. "I'm not quite sure what you're implying, master Jedi, but I think we'd better get back to the discussion."

"Really?" Obi-Wan sighed with exaggerated reluctance. "As you wish."

"Actually," she suddenly decided, "Let's cut to the chase. How are the people affected?"

They were nearing the Palace Archives, whose entrance was a gigantic dome of tainted glass. It completely dwarfed the retinue of Queen, maids and guards and herself as they came to a halt in the paved crossing. Obi-Wan only just had the time to summarize that the people were mostly divided yet still faithful to their Queen – the mass loved their monarch too blindly to consider these views otherwise than exaggerated criticism.

"Besides, their minds are orientated towards a much nearer future," he said as he turned to face Padmé. She only responded with a confused expression, checking her own hand as it intuitively rose to rub sleepiness from her eye.

"What do you mean?"

Obi-Wan considered her for a moment before replying. He was getting more and more used to seeing through all her royal regalia and catching glimpses of the real girl under there. "Perhaps you'd forgotten what month this is?"

She actually thought for a second, before realization dawned on her face. "Oh! My birthday? I wasn't aware something was happening on my birthday."

"One of the main traditions of the old monarchs was to make all of the most important dates of their lives into public holidays," Obi-Wan told her, "The people seem to be preparing a surprise for you. They're starting to decorate the city, and are organizing a parade…"

He felt oddly compassionate when he saw her eyes become rather shiny. "Sorry to spoil the surprise. But I think it wouldn't be such a bad idea to organize something, yourself. Even use the occasion for any announcements you want to make."

"I did want to invite ambassadors from the opposition to get their opinions face-to-face," Padmé said slowly, visibly trying not to sound choked.

"Parades are almost always dangerous," Obi-Wan immediately warned, "And if you're planning to have guests from all over the political spectrum, you'd better be well guarded."

The Queen smiled at him wanly, still overcome by her people's show of love after an entire week of identifying the opposition and planning how to appease everyone. "Well, if you just stick to my side all night, that might just do the trick."

"Your Majesty," Obi-Wan said, bowing more to get his vainly pleased face out of the way than to show gratitude.

"Thank you for the report, master Jedi," she felt obliged to cut them short, her entourage beginning to show slight restlessness. "I'll think on the situation. You'll excuse me if I continue on to the Archives; I still have lots of research to do, and archive assistants to whip into action. Everything's in a frightful jumble."

"Your Majesty," he said again to acknowledge her.

"You're free for the night," Padmé said playfully, "As a reward for exceedingly good behaviour."

"I do try, my lady."

"I know."

A perfumed swish of her skirts, a tinkle of jewellery, and she was gone.

• • •


End file.
